


in my veins, under my skin, baby I breathe you

by burntheroomdown



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, dealing with death, post major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:25:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2212248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burntheroomdown/pseuds/burntheroomdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He doesn't get up, just tuns his head to the side and let's his eyes linger on the empty pillow beside him. His hand twitches towards it, but he stops himself from reaching over. He can't bear to feel how cold he knows it will be under his fingertips."</p>
            </blockquote>





	in my veins, under my skin, baby I breathe you

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the first things I've written in a very very long time and the first thing I have ever written for this fandom, so I apologize in advance.

"It's Sunday." His voice is scratchy and his throat feels as if he's swallowed sand. He doesn't get up, just turns his head to the side and let's his eyes linger on the empty pillow beside him. His hand twitches towards it, but he stops himself from reaching over. He can't bear to feel how cold he knows it'll be under his fingertips, but he can't stop himself from looking over. He has never been able to.

The sketchbook is still laying where Stiles left it. Derek can't make himself touch it, can't bring himself to even look at it most days. There's a thin layer of dust coating the entire bedside table that sometimes makes him sneeze if he rolls over too far at night, crowding the side the younger man had claimed was his. The pencil he had been using is still just under the bed from when he'd slammed it down and it had bounced right off the edge. Derek hasn't picked it up and he has no plans to. ("How much do you wanna bet I drive myself crazy looking for that later?")

He makes himself sit up and swing his legs over the edge. He has to take a deep breath before he can stand and he squeezes his eyes shut to keep himself from looking at the ugly grey bathrobe Stiles had mysteriously acquired one day and had left hanging off the bedpost. There is a light coating of cobwebs over the arms but Derek just pretends he can't see them. ("It's not ugly! You're just jealous I didn't find one for you.")

He showers quickly, eyes avoiding the corner where Stiles' shampoo is perched, waiting for the long limbed young man to knock them over, because he never could shower without trying to destroy the entire bathroom. Derek doesn't linger. He never does. He washes and gets out before his memories can get the better of him. ("Just stand here under the spray with me. It's called relaxing, Derek. Jeez.")

He ignores the neon green toothbrush laying beside his own, ignores the half empty bottle of cologne on the top shelf, ignores everything he himself doesn't use. Most days he can stand other and prepare himself for the day. Not today. Today is Sunday. He hurries through his routine, thoughts of Stiles too close to the front of his mind. ("How come there's always that one speck of toothpaste on the mirror? No matter what I do it always just appears.")

He dresses without care, trying to forget how Stiles had always taunted his wardrobe and the lack of color. He tries to not think about how if he just opens the drawers to the left of his, he would get a lungful of the scent of Stiles laundry detergent. ("Two weeks of freshness, Derek. Two weeks.")

(Sometimes he can still hear the front door slam in the morning, just as he wakes, Stiles' goodbye echoing down the hall. Sometimes he swears he can hear the younger man in the shower when he gets home from work. Sometimes he can still smell the ghost of his cologne if he turns his head just so. Sometimes he swears he can still feel long nimble fingers sliding across his skin, a puff of breath on his neck in the dead of night. Sometimes he can pretend that Stiles has just stepped out for a moment, that he'll walk back through the door if he just waits long enough.)

He walks down the hall towards the kitchen, unable to keep himself from looking at the dent in the wall from the time Stiles had tripped over his own feet and smacked his head into the wall. ("I can totally patch that. I had to learn otherwise my dads house would be full of holes. Why are you laughing?")

The red hoodie is still dropped over the back of the creaky kitchen chair Stiles had loved to sit in, wiggling around to make the worlds most annoying 'music'. Sometimes he can still hear the bright twinkling laugh that would always answer his aggravated huff when he rounds the corner. ("Me keeping still is a sign of the coming apocalypse.")

He makes himself a pot of coffee and when he opens the cabinet, he cannot stop his fingers pausing on the rim of a cracked, cast off little mug with a heart shaped handle. Stiles had found it at a rummage sale one Sunday and used it every morning. He grabs the dark blue one next to it an slams the cabinet door shut before moving to make toast. Sometimes he pauses, waiting for a sleepy figure to press their warmth against his back and demand he make him some toast as well. ("But I'm too tired. What if I burn the house down.")

He eats quietly in the kitchen, trying to ignore the silence pressing in around him. When it gets too much for him, he takes his coffee to the living room and sits on the chair with the rip on the arm and tries to not think about how the rip occurred. Tries to not think about how happy he had been. Tries to not think of anything really. He scrolls through the DVR and hastily puts on Cosmos after he catches himself staring numbly at the twelve rugby matches still waiting for Stiles to come home and watch. ("I'll get to them, I swear. Just don't delete them, okay?")

(Sometimes he curses Stiles for making him love him. For making him open his heart again, allowing the younger man to burrow himself in so deeply that when he left he ripped the whole damn organ out and took it with him. Sometimes he curses himself for allowing Stiles to make himself such a big part of his life that now that he's gone, he can barely fucking hold it together. Sometimes he still cries in the dark at night if someone mentions his name during the day.")

He sits in front of the TV but doesn't pay any attention to it. He has found that it's easier for him to get through the day if he just checks out. He still can't look into a pair of brown eyes without feeling as though he'd been stabbed in the heart. He can't help but compare them to Stiles'. How they're never quite the right shade, wondering if any other person on earth had the brown that could turn that warm honey gold when the light hit them just right. He tries to not look anyone in the eyes anymore. He tries to not think about how expressive Stiles' eyes had been, emotions displayed so clearly, it seemed to physically strike him. The way the young man had no poker face to speak of because of them. ("Just because you can read me like a book doesn't mean everyone can, Derek.")

He turns off the TV at half past noon and grabs his keys and wallet from the coffee table. When he stops at the front door to put on his shoes, he freezes and just stares at the frayed Converse still sitting next to the door, waiting for a ten a.m. lecture that would never come. He is barely able to pull himself together enough to walk out the door. ("They're my favorite. Perfectly molded to my feet.")

He still can't drive past the corner where it happened. It takes him a few extra minutes to get anywhere because he just can't. He still tells himself that it was his fault that Stiles was alone. He refuses to listen to anyone who says there was nothing he could have done, because he could have at least been there with him when it happened. Stiles hated being alone. It was one of his fears. And Derek had let him be alone when he should've been there the most. If he had been there, he might have seen the car in time, he might have been able to push him out of the way, might have even gone with him.

If only he had fucking been there.

When he thinks about it, he just wants to drink himself numb. But then he rememebers the guilt in Stiles' eyes when he told him about how he couldn't keep his dad from trying to crawl into a bottle when his mother died. How he felt like he had failed his parents for not being enough and Derek just can't pick up the bottle.

Laura is still too gentle with him, walking on eggshells, speaking in soothing tones. "Just box his things up, Der. You don't have to get rid of his things, that's not what we're saying. Put it all in boxes and just put them in the attic. You'll feel much better. You need to heal."

Cora has lost all patience with him. She screams at him sometimes when it all just becomes too much. "Do you think he'd want this for you? It's been over a year. It's time for you to start living again! I'm not asking you to get over it, over him, but you cannot keep living like this! You're choosing to live in a haunted house!"

(He doesn't tell her that he is the one who is haunted, not the house. That Stiles' things strewn about are not what is keep him tied to him.) 

He pulls into the familiar driveway and makes himself suck in a deep breath before getting out. The Sheriff has the door open before he makes it to the porch. They big briefly, pulling back to give each other small smiles before walking into the house without uttering a word.

He comes here every Sunday, just like he and Stiles did before. He thinks he will always remember the first Sunday he stepped through that door. He had been so nervous to meet the elder Stilinski, father of the man he was so hopelessly in love with. How he'd been so afraid the Sheriff wouldn't approve of him. He wonders if the older man would agree with his sisters about putting Stiles' things away. If he would agree that he needed to get on with his life. 

His eyes fall on the dirty running shoes Stiles was always looking for, stacked next to the old pair of woman's sandals. He sees the faded lacrosse hoodie hanging next to the dusty wool cardigan with the gaudy mismatched buttons he seen in multiple pictures from just before the pictures from the hospital. He remembers the duffle bag full of lacrosse gear stuffed under the catch all table in the living room that has the beat up purse hanging above it.

The Sheriff turns to him with a look of understanding and Derek knows that he is not the only one who is haunted.

**Author's Note:**

> I had wanted to write something happy and fluffy. I don't understand what happened. I kind of picture Derek as the kind of guy that allows grief to make himself wall himself off.
> 
> Sorry. :(
> 
> I am posting this from my tablet so please please tell me if you see an odd word or if I mucked up majorly. Thank you.
> 
> I'm burntheroomdown on tumblr, but I mostly reblog stuff so....


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